No oddly jovial athlete, not at all put out by the fact he can’t compete in his sport this year.
I cast a look toward the crackling fire, already alive and warm, then I continue toward the front door, pulling it open and stopping on the threshold with a scowl.
Dean works under the hood of my car, his heavy black coat wrapped around his muscular frame, his ski-cap—used like a beanie—covering his hair all the way to the nape of his neck. Hebops toJingle Bell Rock, his hips bouncing and his thighs filling his jeans in an entirely inappropriate way, and though I could stop to wonder where the hell the music is coming from, it takes only another second after peeling my eyes off his ass to notice my driver’s side door open and the Road Runner’s speakers vibrating with Christmas cheer.
Ew.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Startled, Dean shoves up tall and smacks the top of his head against the underside of my hood. He hisses and turns, pouting and rubbing his head. But his stare… dammit, his stare prickles at my body from my toes to my hair. He lingers on my thighs, and loiters even longer on my lips.
Finally, he swaps his pout for a wide, magnetic smile. “Good morning, Counselor. You slept in.”
“I’m technically on leave until the new year. Sleeping in is allowed.”And it had absolutely nothing to do with the bottle of wine I snuggled with all night.
I bring my coffee up and raise a single, questioning brow. “What are you doing with my car? I certainly didn’t give you permission to touch it.”
“Felt bad.” He settles his backside on the car’s frame, crossing his ankles and folding his injured arm across his chest. “I can tell you love this car, and I had the terrible manners to stand in front of it a couple of nights ago.” His eyes sparkle with torment. “Pulled the dent out and buffed it up nice and pretty.”
“You… what?” I shove away from the door and slip my socked feet into an oversized pair of boots I keep close by for emergency dashes to the mailbox, last-minute trash collection, and for theimpressiona man lives here.Safety 101. Huddling into my hoodie and moving down the steps, I steamroll all the wayto my baby and crouch to get a look at the paint he probably cracked. The dent he probably made worse. The… “You can’t just pop these back out in the cold, you know?” I run the pad of my thumb across whatshouldbe an imperfection. “What did you do?”
“Coaxed her out nice and gently.” He crouches beside me, his knee bumping mine, the smooth material of his jacket rubbing against my arm, and dammit, his smile crinkles in my peripherals. “Woke up around four and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I deferred to good ol’ Mr. Fix-It on the internet and figured this out.”
“Videos?” I meet his eyes with a burning scowl. “So, you’re saying you’ve never done this before? Zero experience with body work, and you still thought you could mess around with my car?”
“Loads of experience working bodies, Ms. Maxwell.” He lifts his right hand and makes a show of jabbing it forward. “Though, my goal is usually to create the dents, not pull them out.”
“Dean—”
“I’ve worked on my truck enough over the years to know I could do it. I found videos on the internet to make sure I didn’t screw it up. Now she looks as good as new.” With a parting wink and a flirty smile, he pushes up straight, then he hooks his hand under my arm and drags me up with him. “Also, you were getting low on oil, so I topped it up for you.”
“But you… You…” I grip my coffee in one hand and grab the dipstick with the other. Tugging it out, I search for the line where oil ends and clean metal starts. “If you overfill the oil, it’ll foam and screw my crankshaft. If that happens, you?—”
“Didn’t happen.” He pries the dipstick from between myfingers and puts it back in place. “I already feel like an ass, seeing as how warmly you look at me every time we’re in the same space.” He wipes his hand on the thigh of his jeans and scours my face with a sweeping glide of his eyes. “I promise I did nothing to your car that put it at risk. Just wanted to help fix some of what I broke.”
“What you broke?”I’mthe ass.I’ma giant jerk carrying a bad mood all the way through December, and because I have, I’ve made the victim of my crime feel like the perpetrator.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Exhaling a noisy breath—one, two, three—I drop my hand, open them again, and meet his inquisitive, much-too-kind stare.
Dammit.
“I’m sorry.” I take a single step back and cast my eyes to my car. “You didn’t break anything. You have the right to walk on the road at night andnotget run over, and you definitely don’t deserve my shitty attitude on top of everything else you’re already dealing with.” I meet his gaze and force a small, trying smile. “Thank you for pulling the dent out. And for checking my oil.” I choke out a nervous laugh. “And for not suing me for literally running you down with my car.”
He folds his arms and beams.Too easily pleased, too readily happy. “You’re welcome. I hope your dad would approve.”
“Of you?”
“Of my treatment of the car.” He chucks my chin and heads around to the driver’s side door. “Also, I have no clue how we’rethisclose to the twenty-fifth and you still don’t have a tree up. I wait eleven long months every single year just so I can listen to Christmas music and not feel weird about it.” He cuts the radio, pulls the keys from the ignition, and slams the door. “Did you choose a gown for the charity thing?”
“No, I?—”
“Wear red.” He comes to a stop entirely too close to me, the toes of his boots touching mine, his warm breath on my skin, and his palm pressed to mine as he transfers the keys across. “I bet you lookamazingin red.”
NINE
ANNA
Istep inside an opulent ballroom at eight o’clock the next night, the sparkling red fabric of my gown stretching all the way to my manicured toes, the plunging necklinedemandingI use tape to keep everything in, and my arm wrapped securely around Carter’s… since he latched on the instant I emerged from my car.
